Matters of State
by Tamer Lorika
Summary: Ludwig, only sixteen, is in charge of negotiating troops from Sweden to fight in the Thirty Years War. But if he is to be given Swedish flesh - well, flesh is demanded in return. Non/dub-con.


**Gah, historical disclaimer: This is set during the Thirty Years War. **

**Short story long, it was Habsburg Austria and HRE against France, Sweden, and a lot of little German princes who were pissed that they were controlled by the church. **

**If you could do me a HUGE favor – commonly, it is after this war that in fanon, France cuts up HRE into little bitty pieces. We're going to be awesome here and pretend that this has already pretty much happened (HRE is dead/amnesiatic/what have you) and that Luddy (if we subscribe to the Germany-as-HRE theory) has woken up, dealt with amnesia, and is hanging out with Prussia (aka the German princes who are siding with France). So it is Ludwig, Gilbert, Berwald, and Francis against Roderich, who is babysitting HRE's old land now that he is dead(ish). **

**Confused yet? Ah… yes, figured as much.**

**I honestly… what is this… Its for Gollyzilla, in a art-fic exchange or what have you SO BLAME HER.****

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Ludwig was certain that the Swede was far too smug for his own good, but there he sat, blue-robed and sprawled over a carved wooden chair that had obviously taken a craftsman far too long to make, vaguely smirking behind his dark, glaring gaze and looking as if he were on top of the world. All puns on geography aside, he probably was.

Sighing, Ludwig hung his head, finishing his explanation. "… and so we need your help. There's so few of us… just my provinces, right now, against the Habsburg bastards. You're – " It stabbed his pride to have to say this, but words were words and men were men and he _needed_ men, "you're the Lion of the North, they say, Land Ravisher, and if we could get the aid of any nation, it," Oh, but he wanted to bite his tongue and choke on his own blood "It would be you, Sverige."

Ludwig's face burned in shame and he clenched his fists against the bright color of his uniform pants. In that moment, he could swear he never hated Austria more, forcing him to ask this. He couldn't look the Scandinavian nation in the face.

There was a long, tense silence, in which Sverige considered the proposition. The German – barely a collection of states, possessing no country name, pitiful and helpless – waited tensely for his answer.

"I'll do 't."

It was a long moment before Ludwig could decipher the broken German enough to realize that this had been an affirmation. He looked up in surprise. "Really? _Danke schön, _Sverige, _danke –"_

"Y'have t'do somethin' fer me."

The words should not have sent such a cold chill up the German's spine, but they did, making him shiver in anticipation with the darkness behind them.

"Of course; we are poor and losing but we are willing to pay protection money –"

"S'methin' else," Sverige cut in.

"What –"

"T'night. Spend t'night w'me."

The pronunciation lacked inflection, lacked anything but a cold, calculating exchange; flesh for flesh, blood for blood. If Ludwig gave up his, he would get some in return.

He had been told this was the way things worked in court, but _Frankreich_ was the one who had been dispensing the information and he had doubted its sincerity at the time. Yet now, he must acknowledge that perhaps this currency of the body was the only thing that held true.

What could he do? He could not lose. The man who had raised him and told him who he was, the silver-haired angel of death, would die if he failed. He could not allow that to happen. Not when he was still unsure of who he was. Surely, someone like he, with no past and no future outside of the arms of his protector had no right to be nervous with the loaning of his body. A body that he still did not believe belonged to him, crisscrossed with scars and stitches that he could not remember the cause of.

Sverige stared at him with eyes that absolutely burned, waiting, watching, taking it all in. With a sudden vehemence, Ludwig felt his blood boil and his stomach rebel against his chest, feeling already bare and stretched out and open _how could he submit to treatment like this_ –

"_Eh, you'll be fine, mein Kleine," the pale angel had said, ruffling his hair as if he were ten, not sixteen, nodding in confidence, "You will get him to help us because you're my kin, ya'know." And that spark of fearless rage was there, that spark that he always kept hidden around Ludwig, always tried to, at least. "It doesn't matter at all, not really – no matter what, we'll kick that pansy Osterreich's ass and you and me'll be free at last." And Ludwig understood nothing outside that stone castle but the angel had taught him about death and war and pain from afar and Ludwig understood that it was all inevitable if they could not get aid…_

"Of course," Ludwig said, bowing his head. Sverige nodded as well, in acknowledgement of the deal, and then rose from his throne like a swell of Baltic waves. He beckoned Ludwig to follow him. Ludwig heeled like a dog, and followed.

The corridors of the castle were vast and cold, like everything in this wasted land. Tawdry tapestry was only able to highlight the barren expanses of frost between torch-light circles, and Sverige strode through them with a dominion that Ludwig could only admit suited him.

"Oh, Sve!"

A bright voice cracked through the icy hall, a single warm point that stabbed at Ludwig's mind, too pure to be heard in these walls –

A young boy ran up and threw his arms around Sverige's waist; he must be only Ludwig's age, sixteen perhaps, perhaps younger, his pale hair not the grey-blonde of the ice-king nor gold like the German's own but yellow like sun in itself. He laughed as Sverige picked him up with a grunt.

"I'm not a kid, Sve!" the boy laughed. "Put me down!"

"I say y'are," the man replied, with more emotion than Ludwig had heard from him, even when asking for his body. An emotion like longing, perhaps, a bit of a teasing fire, affection that could not be hidden by broken language – Swedish this time, but Ludwig understood all the same.

"I just got home from seeing the reindeer!" the boy said with enthusiasm. "I named them, too – my favorite is Vixen; she's like a fox and could take one on, I'm sure, I swear she ate a mouse –"

"C'rniv'rous reindeer?" asked Sverige with a twitch of an eyebrow.

"Oh yes – a beautiful thing."

Ludwig could not help feeling scared of this strange creature being held so gently by the ice-king. He must be a twisted being in himself to warrant the affection of the Northern Lion.

"Sve – oh, dear, I'm sorry, you have a guest!"

The boy wiggled down from Sverige's grip and bowed formally. "I'm Suomi. I'm terribly sorry for interrupting you, I just… Sve… I – I'll see you tonight, won't I?"

"Nej, I h've… bus'ness…" Sverige said gruffly. "Go. D'n't get 'n the way. 'f y're good 'll see y'in t'morning."

At that, the Suomi-creature looked hurt, but he bobbed dutifully. "Ur-ursäkta mig," he whispered, and ran down the hall. Sverige watched him go, iron and anger and regret storming across his brow.

Ludwig a numbing sort of understanding, seeing a boy so similar in age to him, seeing the look on the Lion's face. "A replacement?"

"S'too young."

"And I'm…?"

"H're. And b'ggin' for help." He restarted his agitated stride down the hall, only to halt after going a few yards further. "M'chamber. Enter."

Ludwig did as he was told. The room was darker and colder than the hallway, unpierced by light or shaft windows and bare of tapestry or furnishing. The only luxury was a large bed with a hand-carved headboard, dark frame twisting up to hold a wine-red canopy above thick blankets. Ludwig shivered.

Sverige fixed him with a flick-of-steel glance. "G't undr'ssed n'wait f'r me," he ordered. Without another word, the man left the room, leaving Ludwig alone and aching and deeply afraid. The door slammed shut with a final creak-crack.

Slowly, Ludwig inched closer to the bed as if it were a thing alive, mocking him with a wide, dripping mouth. Sitting at its edge, he toed off his boots and socks, then, with shaking fingers, began to undo the buttons of his thick coat. The icy air hit him in waves that he could not explain, his anxiety sensitizing his every nerve. The coat was off, it fell to the floor. The shirt was next, and a slowly-unbuckled belt, snaking reluctantly from Ludwig's broad fingers. He was bare-chested and alone in the darkness, shivering uncontrollably in the cruel climate. There was nothing else to remove, but…

And he stood, rose on shaky legs, unbuttoning his pants. These, too, dropped to the floor, and his drawers, and he stood completely bare and exposed, the inexperienced striptease at an end.

He could pretend that he was in the angel's chamber, naked as well, but safe, warm, sleeping naturally the way he was taught, the soldier's way… Feeling out with clumsy fingers, he crawled into the mocking sheets, huddling into them as if they could embrace him like his brother. They were as slick-cool as the rest of the room.

His body ached from the journey to the lion's den. His blood sang with fear. His mind could not stand the feeling of being ripped in two and he sank against the pillow, every movement brushing a new feeling into his skin. He waited, for the Swede to come back and the night to end, anything, anything, and before he could understand the change the blackness of night had slipped into the blackness of unconsciousness.

* * *

He felt warmth – a pressure against his chest, wetness on his neck and a strange thrill of touch and he whimpered slightly, arching into it before reality crashed in on his mind with a painful crack and his eyes flew open, staring into the cold mica gaze of Sverige.

"Lay still 'n b'quiet 'n it'll be over soon," the Swede said, and dipped his head back to suck marks into Ludwig's neck.

And Ludwig froze and did what he was told because he had never felt anything like this before, so lost and scared and his heart fluttered irregularly, pounding in a way that would make him sick. A cold, bloodless hand across his chest was tripping across his skin, clumsily, as if trying to map unfamiliar mountains. Fingers brushed against his nipples and he gasped out loud, feeling a jolt but no pleasure, just a vague feeling of something _wrong_. Still, he did not move, stone-limbed in shock as the harsh mouth nipped at his neck, then down, across his chest and stomach and those fingers were moving faster and harder now. Ludwig gasped again, trying to get air into lungs that were constricted to tight. He wanted it to end, this – he couldn't be weak, not now. It had only begun. Only –

"'not gonna be pretty," warned Sverige, shoving to fingers into Ludwig's slack mouth. "Suck 'r you'll regret it."

Again, Ludwig was obedient, his mind hazed in vague panic, whole being focused on not biting the digits that were forcing their way almost down his throat. They were withdrawn and in the same movement his hips were shoved painfully sideways, accompanied by the growl of "On your knees."

Ludwig knelt as he was told, balanced on his forearms, and took ragged breaths into the sheets beneath him, shivering. It was so cold in the room, so cold and he was completely naked, his legs spread beneath him and his back to the enemy and _he would be stabbed, he would be killed and_

Two fingers shoved their way inside him with a faint burn and the acidic feeling of cold apathy. They moved in and out and Ludwig bit his lip, more afraid for the fact there was no emotion at all, just movement, nothing but actions that seemed practiced or read out of a rulebook but that was the best way, wasn't it? It had to be worse, if there were emotion here, if there were anger or lust or passion. He could offer himself and be content that it was only business, a transaction, because the movements inside him told him this.

No emotion necessary. Just by the book, by the rules. Nothing else was needed.

And he didn't feel it when something bigger shoved its way inside him, only felt numb and violated but there wasn't any _pain_ at all. That was the way it should be. Just a treaty, just matters of state.

_I'm doing this for you, mein Engel, I'm getting you the troops you need, I'll do it for you, be proud of me –_

Warmth. The only warmth he felt all night and he realized it was coming from him. Shivers of it slid up his spine, in irregular bursts, timed with every third thrust, every other, in no particular pattern but coming as the Swede rammed into him with a bite and tepid breath on his shoulder. And the warmth sat in his core, as well, liquid hot ice filling him up and coiling and knotting and becoming brighter in fits and starts and then more heat was dripping over his chest. He couldn't understand why, only that – _oh_, he had come, across his own chest and the sheets beneath him but he had not felt it coming, could not feel much at all.

Sverige came too, soon after, still thrusting into Ludwig's trembling body that had begun to ache so badly. Even his seed was cold, it felt like, or maybe he was just losing it. His fingers and toes were numb.

"_Tino…"_ the Swede moaned, laying his forehead against Ludwig's back and tremoring spastically. He calmed very soon, as Ludwig waited for, and pulled out, rolling to the side and onto un-soiled sheets.

"Yer debt's paid," he mumbled.

Ludwig stared at his fingers and the sheets and nodded. He did not stay in the cold room. He got to his feet, wiped himself off with the rich red covers around him, and dressed. Then he walked out of the room and down the hall and to the stables and saddled his horse, painfully, and left. He did not look back.

Suomi watched him go, from his slit-window, and wondered if Sverige might go hunting with him in the morning.


End file.
